


the colour blue

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angelic Grace, Angst, Dean Being an Idiot, Dreams, First Kiss, Heaven's Civil War, M/M, Mirror Universe, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The sky is a pure, brilliant blue. </p><p>That's the first thing Dean notices, when he sits up. There's pain, coursing right through him - he could've been run over by a freight train, for all he knows. Sam did say it could be bad - said no one had done it before, and for good reason. Sam's never known when to shut his cake-hole. </p><p>The second thing Dean registers, unsurprisingly, is the massive monster heading towards him, eyes flashing red and gold.' </p><p> </p><p>In which Dean Winchester does have feelings - and, on a rescue mission gone wrong, he's forced to face up to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the colour blue

**Author's Note:**

> Written to 'Chasing Twisters', by Delta Rae. If you're interested, go check it out. It's worth it - I promise!

When Dean wakes, he's lying in a pile of rubble. The rocks dig into his back; as he twitches, he grits his teeth. One ankle moves. It could be his.

" _Shit_ ," Dean hisses. There is no reply. The noise echoes.

The sky is a pure, brilliant blue.

That's the first thing Dean notices, when he sits up. There's pain, coursing right through him - he could've been run over by a freight train, for all he knows. Sam did say it could be bad - said no one had done it before, and for good reason. Sam's never known when to shut his cake-hole.

The second thing Dean registers, unsurprisingly, is the massive monster heading towards him, eyes flashing red and gold.

Said monster is big, and black. That wouldn't be too scary, in itself - aside from the fact that it's cutting through air like butter, and it seems to be floating. And, naturally, the humongous set of teeth in its mouth.

Dean fumbles for his knife. His hands meet empty air.

"Fuck," he says, and dives to one side. He impacts heavily, on the ground, rocks scraping against his abdomen. The creature misses him by inches - Dean hears it slam into the stones.

Above his head, there's a broken streetlamp, head hanging on its pole by a thread. Dean grabs onto the metal, yanks himself upright, and spins around. The thing has still got its head in the bricks; it's shaking its tail, trying to waggle itself free. It would be pretty funny, under any other circumstances.

Dean spins on his heel, and runs away, as fast as he possibly can. Behind him, the bulb shatters.

 

He comes to a stop three streets later, heart hammering in his throat. Leaning back against a wall, he slides downwards, breathing heavily. His ribs sting; he might have broken one, judging from the waves of pain. There's a bead of sweat, running down his forehead. Dean wipes it off, with the back of his hand, and hoists himself to his feet, peering around.

Both directions look the same; nice, neat suburban houses, with white-picket fences and trimmed grass lawns, without a single demon-fish in sight. In the heat, they seem to shimmer, slightly. The curtains are wide open; inside the window of one, Dean can make out a television, and a couple of chairs. The TV screen is blank.

It takes Dean a moment to realise what's wrong.

 

The first house Dean breaks into is empty. It's the closest one to him; that's why he chose it. If he has to run much further, he'll probably collapse. Sam will probably needle him about it, when he gets back - but it'll be worth it, because at least Sam'll be there to go back to - the little bitch.

He has to barge down the door; it hurts like Hell, but he clutches his side, and gets through it. The burn's raging a little less, every time he moves. Probably shouldn't be that way round - but Dean'll take what he can get, under the circumstances. Sam said some weird shit might go down. This could be it.

Nobody in the kitchen, nobody in the dining room, nobody in the living room. There's a clock, on the microwave; its screen is broken. At the bottom of the stairs, Dean pauses. "Hello?" he calls upwards. "Anybody there?"

He waits.

There isn't.

 

By the time he reaches his twenty fifth house, it's getting dark. At first, he worked his way through systematically; one building at a time, room by room. Now, he picks one on every street, and crosses his fingers. So far, he hasn't had much luck. Or any luck, in fact. He can hear Sam laughing from here.

The main thing about the buildings, is that they're all the same. Not just kitschy-style similar, with white tiles and flower borders and squeaky-clean units. They're not close to one another. They're identical - completely and utterly, down to the sheens on the counter-tops, and the folds in the rugs. It's like someone's taken a kid's drawing of a house, copied it, and pasted it about a billion times. It doesn't look real. It's fake.

There aren't any photographs. There aren't any toys. There are no magazines left out on racks, or beers cans strewn across the floor, or anything that makes a house...more than a house. Anything that makes a house a homes gone - scrubbed out of the picture, as though it was never there at all. Maybe it wasn't.

It's perfect. It's picturesque. It's the apple-pie life folks go on about; the dog, and the wife, and the twenty seven kids. It's wrong, wrong, wrong - and Dean can feel it, all the way down to his toes, with every honest fibre he has left.

House number twenty six is silent, too.

 

There is a pile of gunk, on the tarmac. It's just...sitting there. Not moving, or fighting, or doing anything much - just...sitting there. Dean jogs to a halt, staring at it. It doesn't move. It doesn't resemble an object, in particular. It's slimy, and pitch-dark - not exactly qualified to be anything. But if Dean had to liken it to something - with a blade to his chest - he'd say one of Sammy's protein shakes.

The pain's going down, slightly, now. That's gotta be a good sign - no matter what this thing is. Dean steps around it, and, with one last backwards glance, carries on. Up above, clouds begin to gather. They're tinged with smoke.

 

When the music comes, Dean thinks he's imagining it. He's holding onto a fence-post, feeling the paint flake beneath his fingernails. His legs are aching - and there's a pounding in his head, and through it, there's a noise: a familiar doo-doo-doo, repeating over and over again. He heard it in the bunker, this one time. Sammy must have put it on. Or someone like that.

Dean's head snaps up. He takes a step forwards - and another, and another, growing faster and faster. At the crossroads, he pauses, neck snapping from side to side - and he can still feel it, still follow it, and he does, metre after metre, growing closer and closer and closer. It's practically screaming at him; the tinkling melody, crackling and waning. Taunting him.

Dean rounds the corner. That's when he finds it.

 

This house is different from the others. It's not just because of the music - that's the obvious part. It looks the same as all the rest, from the outside: white, and squat. Dean can imagine some retriever, coming bouncing out of it, tongue flapping about - which is pretty weird, in itself.

There are indents, in the grass. They don't look like paw-prints, or tail-marks. Dean's seen enough of those to know the difference. This is something else; something longer, and thinner, with sharp, pointed marks. Toe-marks. Heel-marks. Footprints.

They're leading towards the back of the house. Dean's hand goes to his hip; again, no knife, no gun. Whatever's back there could be a trick - or another one of those fish things. Dean ain't no wilting flower, but he wouldn't go up against one of those for all the money in the world. He could go round there, with no protection, and find one of those staring back at him.

Either that, or he could find Cas.

Dean's walking before he can think about it. Beneath his boots, the gravel crunches.

 

The garden is neat, and tidy. The hedges have been clipped; they form straight lines, running around the edges, blocking it off from everywhere else. There are a few trees, towards the bottom end. From one of them, there hangs a rope swing. It sways, in the breeze; creaking back and forth, casting shadows over the ground.

The man's crouching beside the flower-bed. He's wearing a suit, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. There's a sun hat, on his head. It falls forward slightly, dipping over his eyes. He's hunched over, kneeling. The sunlight shines down, onto his cheeks; it's paler, now, than it was before.

Dean can only stare, and stare, and stare. "Cas?" he says.

The man pauses. His head turns; he smiles. Dean can see the line of his jaw, stubble running along it; the hollows of his cheekbones, stark and black. "Dean," he says, voice a low rumble. Dean can hear the laughter in it. "You're back early."

Dean takes a step closer, throat sealing up. "Cas," he says.

Castiel turns around to face him, still smiling. He plucks the hat off his head, holding it against his chest; he twirls it idly, between pinched fingertips. "I wasn't expecting you. I'd have got changed."

"Changed?" Dean asks, mind blank.

Castiel nods. "Mm. Yes." Wiping his hands on his trousers, he continues: "I was planting. Come and look."

Dean's feet carry him onwards, before he can protest - because out of all the crack-pot situations he's been in, this one takes the biscuit. Hell-hounds? Sure thing. Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Doable. Gardening angels? Not so much.

The plants are white. Dean peers at them. "Err...cool, I guess."

Castiel's watching him, intensely, lips quirking. It's more than a little unnerving. "They're snowdrops. They signify new beginnings."

"I thought those bloomed in winter?"

"They do," Castiel says. "But I don't think that matters much, here."

 

Dean can feel the hairs rising, on his skin. In the background, the tune plays on: _doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo_. Waltz music. Castiel turns away; looks downwards, at the flowerbed. "You're not him, are you?"

"Not who?" Dean asks.

Castiel's eyes are lidded. "Not the man who's stayed with me," he says, without inflection.

Dean feels his shoulders rise, poking holes in his shirt. There's a faint humming, in his chest; a buzzing sensation, that spreads rapidly downwards, descending into the balls of his feet. "I am," he says. "Cas. It's me."

"And you've come to take me back." Castiel doesn't put any emphasis on the words. His voice is a monotone, without rise and fall. It's blank. Behind him, the tree is overcast. The buds on its branches shiver; back and forth, back and forth.

"Yeah - yeah, I have. 'Course I have." Dean finds his hackles rising, without really knowing why.

Castiel looks him up and down - once, twice. Dean's hands grind into fists. "We should talk," the angel says. He turns away, and walks inside. The patio doors creak, as he pushes them - and then, quite suddenly, he's gone.

Dean watches the space where he stood, faintly disbelieving. "You've gotta be kidding me," he breathes, from between clenched teeth.

(He follows anyway.)

 

The gramophone disc is spinning, in the living room. Castiel lifts the needle. He sets the disc down on the sideboard, fingertips stroking over the grooves.

"Where did you get that from?" Dean takes a step closer. His feet make creases in the rug. "I ain't seen one of those, round here."

Castiel turns away from him, back ram-rod straight. He places the hat down, next to the disc, quietly. "I made it."

"You made it? Like...like you made all of this?" Castiel head jerks, once; up, and down. Dean exhales. "Well, man, you've got some creepy taste."

Castiel remains silent, for a beat. "I thought it was nice," he says, eventually.

Dean snorts. "Yeah, if you wanna live in Balamory. Look around! It's empty! Is that what you want? To be by yourself, in crazy town? 'Cause Sam and I, we thought you were pretty happy with us - and normally, when you're happy somewhere, you stick around. You don't go waltzing off, and expect us to chase your ass down here!"

Castiel frowns, a little. "I have not been gone for long."

Dean smiles. It's tight. "Sorry to burst your bubble, angel, but it's been weeks. Months. You say you're going out for pizza, and then...nothing." Dean spreads his hands wide, encompassing the broad expanse of 'nothing'. Castiel watches. "Not a phone call, not an email, not a freakin' postcard. You got a problem, you talk it out with us. You don't run off into the sunset, and have done!"'

"I have been gone before," Castiel says, after a beat.

"Yeah, but not without warning! Not without letting us know! Not when I - when we thought you'd stick around, for once!" Dean takes a breath, hands running through his hair. "I thought you were happy, Cas. I thought we were good."

"I was happy, Dean."

"Then why," Dean says, slowly, "did you leave? Huh? Why?"

Castiel's mouth widens, and shuts. "I...I-"

"Forget it. You know what? We'll deal with this at home." Dean extends his hand, gabbing the angel's sleeve. A few inches below his fingertips, he can feel the heat from Castiel's wrist, surging into him. He pulls. There is no movement. "Come on, Cas. Don't know about you, but I sure as Hell don't fancy getting eaten."

"I owe you an explanation. I - wait." Castiel's face contorts. "What do you mean, eaten?"

Dean feels his eyebrows shoot up. "Eaten. You know. By the fish-monsters? Did you miss those, when you were playing God?" Dean doesn't miss Castiel's flinch. He tries to ignore it. "They're outside, and they could get in here. So. Are you coming, or not?"

"But...but this is wrong." Castiel shakes his head. Dean scowls. His fingers tighten. "Your presence here is disrupting the construct. I won't be able to come back."

"Good! Now let's get a move on, before sharky sinks his teeth into our asses!"

Castiel's face squeezes, almost imperceptibly. If Dean wasn't an expert in Cas's Expressions and The Potential Consequences Thereof, he probably would've missed it.

Castiel looks up. He isn't smiling.

"There's something," he says, "I have to do."

 

They're back in the garden, and Castiel's stalking across it like some kinda man-shaped lion - which, Dean figures, is pretty damned accurate. Dean has to speed-walk to keep up with him, hanging onto his heels. Cas is scowling at the ground, and the trees, and the sky. Dean's not sure what's got him in this move - but he can't really focus on that, because of the ache in his chest, and all along his abdomen. There must be bruising on there. Sam's gonna flip a nut, when he sees it.

When Castiel comes to a halt, Dean almost crashes into him. The angel's looking up, towards something. There are hard lines, around his eyes. He's not grinning, anymore. Not even close. Dean squints, craning his neck back, forcing his eyes to open.

"Huh," he says.

The tree's branches curl upwards, away from them. They're darker, now that the shade's here. Somewhere in the distance, there's a low, deep roar. It sounds like a rumble.

Castiel's face is inches away from his. His breath is warm, mingling with Dean's own. "Dean, no matter what happens now, you must promise not to touch me. No matter how much pain I appear to be in, you must not attempt to remove me from it. Is that understood?"

Dean's mouth is, inexplicably, dry. "Why not? What's going on?"

Castiel's mouth inches downwards. "There is a fragment of my Grace, within the tree."

Dean blinks. "What?"

Castiel sighs. It's decidedly long-suffering. "I placed it there, so that this could remain operational. However, your arrival has put a stop to that. How you even found me is a mystery."

"Gee," Dean snaps, "don't have to thank me. Not like I spent months researching, or put my life on the line, or anything like that."

Castiel ignores him. Instead, he turns to one side, and places his hands against the trunk. His fingers are long, and stained with dirt. The leaves shake, up above, rustling in the wind. Cas stares at the bark, as though it holds the answer to his prayers.

"I am sorry, Dean," he says - and before Dean can reply to that, Castiel closes his eyes, and yanks.

 

There is light, everywhere. It gets into the nooks, and the crannies, and the holes; it's snapping and biting; it's fins and tails and gills, slicing into his skin, dragging him down below.

Dean shields his eyes; but it gets brighter and brighter, searing into him. His stomach writhes, again - and he would puke, except there's nothing inside him.

Castiel's hands are on fire. That's the obvious conclusion. Blue flames are licking over them, pulsing and roaring - Dean can't see past them, but he can see Cas's face. His teeth are bared; his eyes are narrowed. He looks like he's fighting something, on the other side - something Dean can't see, and doesn't really want to.

At that moment, Castiel begins to scream. And scream. And scream.

It's loud, and piercing, and low - coming up from his chest, and bursting out, from between clenched teeth. It's not a human sort of scream; it's the sound of an animal in pain, a whining, getting higher and stronger with each passing second. Dean staggers back, covering his hands with his ears. It rings, inside his head - over and over and over again, until it's everything, and Dean can't think, can't speak, can't move, can only say Cas, Cas, Cas-

The sound stops.

The quiet is hollow.

Dean lowers his palms, half-expecting it to start up again, simply because he's let his guard down. It doesn't. Somehow, he's on his feet. He didn't know he was standing.

Castiel's hands fall to his sides. The tree pulses, once; light runs down its form, from the leaves and the branches and the knots, rushing downwards. For a second, Cas glows blue - and then the tree is brown, and the light is gone.

Dean lets the air fly out of him, in a whoosh. Castiel's head tilts. He turns around, slowly.

His eyes burn blue.

"Dean," he says - and sways, taking a stumbling step backwards, holding himself up against the tree. Dean moves closer, on instinct - and Castiel shies away, breaths coming rapidly. Dean forces himself to a standstill. His fingers itch. "Dean," Castiel says again, and smiles. His knees buckle.

When he falls, he falls hard.

Dean rushes forwards. He can hear his pulse-beat, in his head; the sickening thunk that comes with adrenaline. His ears hum, softly - and Cas is almost on the ground. Dean doesn't think. He stretches out his arms, and, as Castiel meets the dirt, wraps them around him.

There is a flash - a bang, almost. Not quite thunder, but not too far away from it, either. There is a flash. There is blue - endless, soaking, seeping blue, like ink on blotting paper, except brighter.

And then, after that, there is nothing.

 

Dean's on his back, and he's soaking wet. He can feel the cold, through his shirt - and it kills. Pushing himself up, he looks around, and swallows about a dozen raindrops. Choking, he splutters, coughing spittle onto the grass. Goosebumps rise on Dean's skin. He shivers.

Cas is sprawled out on his side, right beside him. The rain's trickling over his nose. It sticks in his eyelashes, forming droplets there. There are bags, below them. The trenchcoat's splayed around, around him. It's dripping.

Dean rolls onto his front, hands fisting, disentangling Cas from his chest. Cas makes a small sound, as he slumps backwards; it comes up, from the back of his throat. Dean tips his head back. The sky is grey, above him. The sun is gone.

Castiel doesn't move.

"Cas," Dean gets out, panting, "we've gotta move. Stand up." Castiel mumbles something incomprehensible, in an undertone. In amongst it, Dean hears his name. Beneath his hands, the mud moves. It coats his wrists; sits in the lines.

Crouching, he loops his arm below Cas's shoulders, and tugs. Cas half-moves; he ends up on Dean's lap, head falling backwards, and resting on his shoulder. He looks younger, when he's sleeping. Dean doesn't think he's seen it, before.

"Come on," he says, "we can do this. Just like riding a bike. Can't forget." Cas's eyes flicker open - he stares forwards. His chest heaves; his skin's cold, icy. There are red splashes, high up on his cheeks. Dean rubs at Cas's arms, trying to get warmth back into them. The swing set sits above them, seat sodden.

"Come on, Cas. Stay with me. Stay with me, buddy. We can do this. Just hold on. Hold on for me, alright?" Cas is a dead weight, in his arms. Dean hoists him up; goes to stand. Cas moves limply, against him. He's heavy. Dean clenches his teeth, and hangs on. "Gotta get back on your feet, buddy. Gotta do that for me."

Cas's head falls; his eyelids flicker. He slides to one side; before he can fall, Dean holds onto him, dragging him back up. They remain still - just standing there, as the rain falls. It's getting colder. There are stars, overhead. They look real enough: pin-pricks of light, set against the blackness.

Dean stares up at them, Castiel straining his sore side, and takes a step.

 

They make their way towards the house slowly. It wasn't too far, when Cas was walking out here. The leaves swirl with slush, below their feet. The rain is pouring, now; pouring, and pouring, like it'll never stop. Dean can barely see through it - but he can see, and he can still walk. He can hear his breaths; ragged. Cas's feet drag, in the grass.

"Almost there, now. Few more steps. That's it." There's an exhalation; a burst of air. The pain loosens its hold, a little. Dean looks down. Castiel's looking at him, face set; rigid. Dean moves forward, without looking away. Castiel takes a breath - and then he steps, one foot in front of the other.

Dean grins, as best he can. "That's it. That's it. That's what you've gotta do. Keep going, Cas. We're nearly there." Castiel stares at him, blank-faced. Probably thinking about what a moron he is - but right now, Dean couldn't care less. They shuffle forwards. Cas's fingers curl, in the back of his shirt. His flesh is ashen.

"Just a bit further, Cas. You've got this. For me. Come on. Not much further. Come on. Come on." Dean's babbling, and he knows it. He can't stop. The words spill out, over each other; one after another, because they've gotta keep going, keep going, keep going.

"Remember when I said we were family, Cas? Remember that?" Castiel nearly stumbles; Dean forces him upright, arms tensing. "I meant it. You're family, Cas. Family don't give up on each other. Right?" Ten more steps, maybe - and then they'll be on the porch, and in the house, and in the clear. "Remember when we met? You told me you'd saved me, Cas. Told me we were made for something bigger."

Seven steps; six. Cas is barely moving, now. One breath; another. Five. Wood's coming up; coming closer. The doors are left open. The gramophone's there, in the living room. It shines. Dean laughs, breathless. "It was good, wasn't it? The stuff we did. Not all of it, but...we got through. Always will. You and me and Sam, we're family. Gotta look out for each other. Gotta stay."

Three steps. Two steps. One. "I'm not leaving, Cas. I'm not going anywhere." Dean glances across at him; him, with his coat stuck to his body, and his eyelids flickering, and his feet knocking together. "And you'd better not leave, either," Dean says, far too softly.

When Cas falls, this time, Dean's ready for it.

 

Dean carries him inside. He's pretty heavy; all muscle and bone, beneath his skin. Fit, and healthy. Dean's knees shake, as he kicks open the door. The couch is close by; it's startlingly red, against Castiel's cheeks. It matches his fever. Dean arranges him; settles him down softly, against the cushions. Cas's eyes are shut, tight.

Dean lowers himself to the ground, back pressed up against the settee. He can feel numbness, in his legs. That's probably not a good thing. Sam would know about this shit. He'd say some Stanford mumbo-jumbo, and sort it all out. If Cas still had his powers, he'd be able to, too. Some angel.

It's warm, in the room - warmer than he'd like. His teeth are chattering, but it's not all bad. He's tired - weary. Releasing a breath, Dean relaxes, rubbing at his eyes. The far wall swims. He can see light, reflecting off the gramophone. If Dean squints at the shadows, they look like petals. If that isn't a sign of how far gone he is, he doesn't know what would be.

"Cas?" somebody says.

Dean's head snaps up, with a jolt.

There's a man, standing in the doorway.

 

Dean starts to his feet, scrabbling up the side of the couch. The man doesn't move - just stands, scanning the room. On the sofa, there is no movement.

He's not that tall, really. He's wearing white socks, with jeans and a t-shirt. The word Metallica is written on it, in block capitals. There's a small tear, at the bottom of the sleeve.

Dean stares at him. And stares. And stares.

The man's familiar - undeniably so. He's got tanned skin, and dark-blonde hair. Sam calls it dirty-blonde, when he's in a good mood. The jeans have a smear of oil, towards the ankle area. The knees are worn through, so that you can see bare skin, poking out of the gaps. At the temples, his hair is greying.

He's slouching; one hand in his pocket, forcing it outwards, and the other behind his head. His body's arched; he's preening, stretching, showing it off. He looks...comfortable, somehow. The man has green eyes. They're smiling.

"Hey, angel," the Other Dean says, leaning against the doorframe, "you been waiting up for me?"

For a second, Dean remains stock-still, brain fizzing desperately. After a moment, it gives a final, predatory clink, and goes off-line entirely.

_"Angel?"_

 

The man doesn't respond; just walks towards him, padding smoothly. Dean doesn't know that much about himself, all told, but he definitely doesn't move that way. It's got an elegance to it; the man sweeps, and glides. Even when he stops, a few feet away, he stands perfectly still. Dean resists the urge to swallow.

"So," the Other Dean murmurs, "you must be Dean." Dean's mouth falls open. The Other Dean smirks. "It's good to see you."

"How do you know about me?"

The man's teeth flash. They're white, and level. Dean feels his stomach curl. "How do you think?" he says. Their eyes are perfectly level. No matter how hard he tries, Dean can't look down on him.

"Cas."

"Of course. It's all he ever talks about." The man looks past him, towards the couch. Dean follows his gaze. Cas isn't moving - isn't breathing. If you didn't know what he was, you'd think he was dead. Other Dean's voice is soft, when he speaks again. "His Dean. How valuable you are to him."

Dean half-flinches. The man ploughs on, tone growing measured: "There must be something...special about you, to earn his trust." He opens his hands, fingers splayed, and shrugs. "I guess we'll be getting to know each other, anyway. If you're staying."

Dean shakes his head. "No. Cas...we've gotta get him out of here. He's sick. There are doctors, back where I come from. They can-"

"They can what? Poke inside his head? Heal an angel?" The man snorts, derisively. It's a familiar sound. "Forget it. He's not going anywhere."

"Yes," Dean says, "he is. We've gotta go. Now. There are...things, following us. We're not safe."

The man walks to the window, and pulls the curtain back. Moonlight streams through, onto his face. "We're safe here," he says, at last. "They can't get inside, if Cas doesn't let them. And he won't - won't mean to, at least. We've gotta do something about it."

Dean folds his arms over his chest, bristling. "Since when do you know what he'll do?"

"Oh," the man says, "I know."

"Fine. Prove it."

Other Dean smiles. It isn't friendly.

"Shoot," he says. "I'm game."

 

Dean racks his brains, brain remaining uncooperative. "Err..."

"Yeah?"

"First thing he ever said to me."

Other Dean snaps the curtains shut. "Castiel," he replies.

"Favourite animal?"

"Honey bee."

"Favourite food?"

"Cheeseburgers - the more, the better." Other Dean steps forward. "Convinced, yet?"

Dean scoffs, loudly. "Anyone could know that stuff."

Other Dean halts. On his hands, there are no scars. "I know that he's an angel. I know that he has doubts. I know that since he's met you, he's been to Hell and back - and not just dragging for out of there. He's been God. He's been human. He's died - over and over again. And you know why?"

The room's too hot; Dean wants to rub his neck, wants to step away. His fists buzz - and there's a hole in his chest, and it's only getting bigger. He steps closer - their faces are close. Dean could swing his hand up, and punch him, and he'd deserve it.

The man looks at him - hard. "He did it," he says, "because you asked. So help me look after him, or I swear to God, I'll throw you to the demons myself. Do we have an understanding?"

Dean swallows. The hole gapes, wide.

He nods.

Other Dean smiles. It has far too many teeth.

 

They set up lines of salt, in the doorways. Other Dean says it's a precaution, tipping the canisters randomly, nudging them along with his foot. Dean spreads granules with his fingertips, easing them apart. He does a good job of it - a really good job. He hasn't been this thorough with a salt line since Dad was around, and he was still trying to impress.

There aren't any guns, in the house. Other Dean doesn't seem phased, by this - just walks into the kitchen, pulls out the draw, and dumps a set of knives onto the sideboard. Their blades gleam.

"Found these a while back," he says. "Guess I ain't just another pretty face, after all."

Dean laughs, and masks it with a cough. Other Dean's brow rises. "What? Think you're ugly?"

"Me? No way." Dean strikes a pose, hands on his hips. "I'm America's Next Top Model."

Other Dean lines up the knives, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I understand that reference," he says.

Dean blinks. "How do you know about that?"

"I know about everything," Other Dean says, evenly. "Cas. You. Even Sam. He sounds...interesting." 

"I'll say," Dean chuckles, before: "What, you don't have one?"

Other Dean looks at him, sharply, and says: "What do you think?"

Dean looks at the tiles. They're white. Some have chips, around the edges.

"Sorry."

"Nah. I'm over it." Other Dean flips a wrist. His mouth is a long, hard line.

In his hand, the knife sparkles.

Dean casts his eyes down. 

 

"If you're me, why don't you have the scars?" Dean sits forward, slightly, chin raised. The Other Dean glances across.

"Hm?"

"Your scars. Where are they?"

Other Dean opens the cupboard door, and places the canister back inside. It slides onto the shelf. "Don't have any."

"What? How?"

The man turns towards him. Behind him, there is a bottle of squirts cream. It's vaguely disconcerting. Other Dean's fingers work, on his button cuffs. Rolling them up, he smiles, eyes hooded. His arms are bare.

There isn't a mark on them. In his throat, Dean's breath catches. He wants to reach out - wants to touch.

When Other Dean speaks again, he does so quietly.

"I'm not you, Dean. I'm like you - but I'm not you. We can't be the same. We can't be together. Just because you're here, this whole place is falling apart."

"Why?"

Other Dean shakes his head. "I don't know," he replies. "We just can't. Oil and water. Whiskey and flame. We don't mix."

"Fire and match," Dean says.

Other Dean's grin is crooked. "Precisely," he replies.

 

"When I was a kid, I wanted a dog," Dean says. The words surprise him, coming out of his mouth. They seem to surprise Other Dean, too.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean wraps his hands around his arms, leaning back against the cupboard. From the wall, he can feel Other Dean's gaze on him. "Dad wouldn't let me. Said we couldn't look after it - it would've been cruel, to keep it around. It wouldn't have worked. Not with the life we had."

"John Winchester," Other Dean says, as though he's repeating something - which, to be fair, he probably is. It's a little creepy - the idea of him and Cas, here in this kitchen, reciting names and phrases and memories. Dean had always thought his life was private. Now...not so much.

Dean nods. "I could've got one, for Sammy. He said he'd like one - said it'd make him happy. I told him we couldn't."

"Too dangerous," Other Dean finishes. "Couldn't care for it."

"Right," Dean says.

"But that wasn't all."

"No."

Other Dean extends an arm, and seems to think better of it. Dean smiles.

"Thing is, when Dad wasn't around, I used to pretend we did have one."

There is a pause; and- "What kind?"

Dean looks up, sharply. "What d'ya mean, 'what kind'?"

Other Dean blinks. "I-"

"Retriever, of course. Golden retriever. I thought you knew me?"

Other Dean's grin lights up his face. It makes him look, for a second, like Cas. Dean chokes on the thought.

_Tick. Tick. Tick-_

"I wanted a cat," the man says. "I called her Lisa."

"Lisa?"

Other Dean keeps his face straight. "She was a feisty one," he deadpans.

_Tick._

Dean dissolves into helpless, snorting laughter, covering his face with his sleeve. Other Dean joins him - and Dean feels it rise up in his belly, coating his mouth. Clamping his lips together, he takes a deep, shuddering breath-

"Lisa," he crows, "well, I'll be damned. Lisa. Did she have a kitten? Did you call it Ben?"

"Of course I didn't," Other Dean says, expression perfectly neutral. "That was the puppy."

_Tick._

"If you think that's bad, you should have seen Bobby."

"What was he?" Dean asks.

The man answers.

This time, Dean really can't stop.

 

"Hey, err, Dean...how often does Cas come around?"

Other Dean shrugs. "Three times a week. Sometimes four."

"Four times? A week?"

Other Dean stares at him, faintly bemused. Dean can't blame him. He probably looks traumatised. "Yeah. Why? Don't you get to see him?"

"Not - not four times! Two, tops! And that's if there's not a war going on!"

Other Dean tilts his head to the side. It's such a typically 'Castiel' gesture, Dean does a double-take. "Cas never talks to me about that. He doesn't mind it as much."

"He. Doesn't. Mind. About Heaven."

"He does," Other Dean amends. "You're higher up his list of priorities, I guess."

In Dean's gut, something twists. "Yeah," he barks out, "like that's true. Got any beer in this tub, or is Cas avoiding that too?"

"Why wouldn't it be true?"

"Are you kidding?" Something in Other Dean's expression tells Dean that he isn't. Dean elaborates. "We don't talk. We don't meet up. The only time he comes around, he's all about the war, and how crap things are going. Like I can actually help."

"Have you tried listening?"

"Sure, I've listened. I've done everything. Don't think I could've done much more - and if it wasn't enough for him, I ain't changing." Dean scrapes a fleck of dust out, from beneath his nail. It's getting hard to focus on; it's swimming. "If he don't wanna stay, I can't make him."

Other Dean's eyes are stupidly, pointlessly sad. "I don't think he's got a choice."

"We've always got choices. Always. That's - that's what makes us different." The grain of dust tumbles downwards, falling onto the ground. Dean grinds it to pieces. "I've gotta take a few," he mutters. There's a pressure on his shoulder - a hand. The weight is warm. There are cracks, running down the wall.

There must be a leak, somewhere, because the sleeves of his shirt are wet.

 

Cas is relaxed, now; limp. One hand is folded over his chest. The other hangs down the side of the sofa, fingertips almost scraping the floor. His coat's spread out, all around him; his hair's tousled. He's smiling, slightly - like there's some great joke going on, and he's the only one who gets it. Dean can't help but smile, at the sight of it.

"Beer?"

Dean pushes against the frame, standing up straight. "Sure."

Other Dean holds out the bottle. Dean accepts it, gratefully. It's cool, against his hands. He takes a swig. It glides down his throat, making it tingle and buzz. He sighs. "Ah."

The man smiles at him. "Thought you'd like that. Some things never change."

"Guess Cas said that too, huh."

In the doorway, Other Dean joins him. For someone who isn't meant to be real, he's surprisingly warm.

"Shouldn't he have woken up, by now?"

Other Dean chuckles. "You know him. Doesn't sleep - but when he's out, he's out for the count. If the Apocalypse happened right now, he'd nap right through it."

"Right," Dean says. He can feel eyes, on his face. They mark. "What?"

"You didn't know that?" Dean holds out the bottle. Other Dean takes it back, and drinks from it. His eyes are laser-beams.

"I - no. That's - Cas - that's not how we do things, alright? It doesn't work like that." Dean looks at the ground, hands locking together. "We're family. We're not..."

On the couch, Cas's face glows, in the moonlight. Somewhere in his mouth, Dean loses sight of his words.

To his side, there's a low chuckle. "OK. Fine. If that's how you roll."

"Yeah," Dean says, "it is. And if you've got a problem with that, you can take it up with me. Got that?"

The man holds up his hands. "I'm not fighting. Not tonight."

There is a hush. The clock ticks; once, twice, three times. Dean shifts.

"Would've thought Cas could install some central heating, with all of his angel mojo." Dean tries for a laugh. It seems close enough - and if he's not an expert on it, sue him. There isn't much to laugh about, these days - no matter what Sam says, with all of his hippie bullshit. "Seems to be around here a lot, anyway."

Other Dean twists the bottle around, pointing it towards the floor. "Dean," he says. "You-"

_Bang._

 

Dean's moving in an instant, scrabbling towards the bench. He can feel his heart, thumping around - and that's no good for anyone, or anything. One of the cabinet doors is open. Inside, next to the salt, he can see bacon.

Other Dean's ahead of him - he's going for the corridor, feet hammering on the tiles, foot-falls loud; one after another, bang-bang-banging. In the doorway, he spins around, peering over his shoulder. Around the blade, his hand is tight.

"Look after him," he says. "Don't let it get in." And - before Dean can protest - he's gone. Just like that.

Dean doesn't move, for a moment. The knife sits easily, in his palm. He curses. Loudly. Cas wouldn't like that. Wouldn't like it at all. Doesn't like much. He wouldn't know a fun time if it leaped in front of him, grabbed him by both hands, and started doing the hula.

On the couch, Cas doesn't shift.

From the other room, there's another  _bang_.

"Cas," Dean says, and sprints for the exit.

 

Cas is lying there, when Dean bursts in, knife held aloft. He keeps it in front of him, as he crouches down. His knees hit the carpet; dull explosions shoot through them. They click.

"Cas. You've gotta wake up. Now." No movement - no response. Dean grabs his shoulder, and tugs at it. Cas flops onto his side - but he doesn't stir. Of course he doesn't. "I ain't foolin' around! Move!"

Castiel's cheeks aren't red, anymore. He looks like he's been bleached; all the colour scrubbed out of him. Light streams through the curtains, onto his face. His eyes remain closed.

Dean swears, again.

_Thump._

"Cas. You've gotta do this. This - this is important, right? I know you can hear me, you stubborn asshole, so - just wake up. Wake up!"

_Thump._

"Jesus, Cas, move! You've gotta move! You can't just - just leave him there! If you don't get up, he's gonna die!"

Castiel's eyelids are dark. There are thin lines, running through his skin; veins, Dean thinks. His collar-bones jut outwards.

_Thump._

Dean exhales; cusses; looks towards the sky. It's white.

_Bang._

Dean hesitates; drops his hand. It falls, softly, against Castiel's cheek. Castiel looks younger, when he's sleeping. Softer, somehow.

"I'm sorry, Cas. I'm real, real sorry." Dean swallows, past the thing in his throat. He can hear his heartbeat; going faster and faster and faster, a runaway horse inside his chest, bursting to be let free.

_Bang._

Cas's skin is smooth, underneath his hand. His lashes cast shadows, underneath his eyes. Dean tips his face up, with one hand. Castiel moves with it, throat exposed. In Dean's stomach, something hard settles.

He leans closer, hands cupping Cas's face. Blue smears riddle his skin, creating a fine under-canopy. He's all white, and black, and stark - there's no middle ground. Not with him. Not ever.

_Bang._

_Bang._

In the near-dark, Dean bends closer, and presses their lips together. Castiel's lips are soft; plush, almost. They taste sweet - gentle. Dean can almost imagine, if he closes his eyes, that he's being kissed back.

Cas's skin is cold; he rests a palm against it, pressing their foreheads together. They've never been this close, before. The moonbeams turn Castiel to silver.

"Sorry," Dean repeats.

He receives no reply.

 

When Dean reaches the corridor, he knows he's too late. There's a stench, in the air - something rotting, and stinking. Dean gags; clamps his hand over his mouth, as he staggers against the wall. The air grows thicker - it's like wading through treacle, or his first time in a pool, trying to reach the other side. He can still remember the panic.

The monster's huge. If the other one was big, this one's its daddy. Fangs, gills, fins - the whole shebang. It's kind of a shark, in a way - then again, honestly, it's looking a lot more like death on legs. At least with sharks, you can fight back. Against this thing, you've got no chance.

Other Dean is slumped, against the wall. His head's hanging forwards, over his chest. The creature hovers over him, mouth gaping wide, teeth gleaming dully, in true movie-monster fashion.

There is a patch of black, on Other Dean's shirt. He isn't moving.

Suddenly, the knife in Dean's hand seems much, much too small.

The creature scents the air, head snapping forwards, right towards Other Dean.

"Hey! Ugly!" The thing stops, inches from its target - and turns its head. Up close, it's even larger. Dean gulps - thrusts the knife out, before him. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

He can sense the anger - it goes right through him, pooling in his gut. There's something wet, in his eyes, in his chest - and it's all such shit, it makes him want to scream, and punch the walls, and yell at the sky.

The creature flicks its tail, and pauses, directly opposite him. It's eyeballs flicker. Dean brandishes the knife. "Come and get me," he says.

Time stops.

The thing doesn't move - remains immobile.

Dean's pulse sky-rockets.

Nothing moves. And then, after a heartbeat of stillness, the thing bares its teeth, and lunges towards him.

Dean doesn't even get time to cry out, before it's on him.

 

 

 

Heaven, oddly enough, is blue.

Dean hadn't been expecting that. Last time he'd been up there, it hadn't exactly been harps and unicorns - but this is another level of weird.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, and opens them again. It hurts.

The blue condenses; swirls, into tight little clumps. Not clumps - eyes. Cas is here. In Heaven.

The eyes are glaring at him.

Ah. That makes sense.

"I told you _not to touch_. One simple instruction, Dean. _One_."

Dean tries for a smile. It's a weak attempt. "Still here, ain't I?"

Castiel's face turns into a thunderstorm. Dean winces.

"When have I ever - ever - demanded something of you without good reason?"

Dean shrugs - or something like that. "I - shit. Where's Dean?"

Cas's brow furrows. "Dean?"

 

"Dean. The Other Dean." Levering himself up, Dean looks around, as though Other Dean might be hanging around; lying on the grass, maybe.

They're back in the garden, somehow. Funny place for Cas to drag him to - but whatever. If it got them out, it got them out. "He - he was right there. In the corridor. With the fish." Dean points towards it, hands flapping wildly. "Dean. The Dean you made. Where is he? Where's the...the thing? What happened?"

Castiel's eyes are wide. His mouth hangs open - and snaps shut. "Dean," he says. It sounds like a sentence, all by itself. "Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

Dean shakes his head, quickly. "Bull."

Castiel's head draws back. Dean has to sit up, to keep eye-contact - but Castiel won't meet his gaze. The wind wafts his coat around him, making it flicker. It's dry.

Dean staggers to his feet, lurching slightly. Castiel has turned away - is looking out, over the garden. It's still night; somewhere close by, a street-lamp glows.

"We should go," the angel's saying, "we're running out of time. If your brother made the portal, he won't be able to keep it open indefinitely. We-"

"Is that how we're gonna do this? Is that what you're gonna say?" Dean steps forward. Cas looks down; looks back up again. He's glaring.

"Let go of me."

"No."

 

The word sends the wind skittering. Castiel's throat bobs. Dean can't tear his eyes from the movement; from the slight flush, on his cheeks. "What's going on, Cas?"

"Nothing is 'going on', Dean." Castiel doesn't meet his eyes, as he speaks. "You have been exposed to my Grace, in its purest form. It is unsurprising that you hallucinated."

"What, and that happens a lot? Get me if I'm wrong, but that doesn't sound likely." Castiel stares forwards, fixedly. His throat is working, hard. Dean can feel irritation, creeping into his tone. "Cas. Talk to me."

For a second, it looks like he's going to. There's something playing, behind his eyes - something that Dean can't see, making them flash. "There is nothing, Dean," he says. "I am simply...tired. We must go."

He tries to pull away. Dean holds on. "OK. OK. If you want to play that, I'm ready."

Castiel frowns at him. Dean's seen that look before - it's the _This Man Is A Certifiable Moron Stare_. It's the _Give Me Strength Gaze_. It's the _Why Has This Insect Not Been Smited? Glower_. Dean should know. It's been directed at him enough.

"This is no game, Dean." Castiel walks forward, practically bleeding purpose. Dean juts out his chin; forces himself to stay still, even as those eyes bore holes in him. "If we remain in this reality for much longer, it will fragment. Your fears are already leaking into it."

"My fears? What do you mean, _my_ fears?"

Castiel sighs, deeply. He's annoyed. Dean can tell. He'd know just from the voice, without the face. There are lines, etched in deep. "It is not of import. Dean...if you know what is important, then you will let me go."

Stems brush Dean's ankles, scraping his trouser-legs.

"Alright, Cas...I'll make you a deal."

 

Cas is watching him, wary. By his sides, his fingers have curled. Dean taught him that; fighting stance. Back straight, chin up. Keep yourself steady, and it'll work itself out. It makes Dean's chest tighter, to think about it. So, he doesn't.

"Tell me I didn't see anything, and I'll take you home. Tell me it wasn't real, and we can go back, and everything will be the way it was before."

Castiel's staring at him - narrow-eyed and tight-lipped and fierce - and Dean's palms are dry.

"Tell me," he says, again, "and - and I won't bother you again. Promise. We'll be Cas and Dean, and you'll be the angel, and I'll be the hunter, and that - that'll be enough. Hell, it's more than enough. I just - I - I need to know."

His voice cracks, on the last word. He can't figure out why. It's not the brave thing to do - not what Dad would've wanted, not what Bobby would've stood for. Hell, even Sam would be working this better. If it was Sam, they'd probably be halfway back to the Bunker by now, listening to some God-awful country song and laughing the whole thing off.

Maybe that's what Dean should be doing - pulling a sheet over it, and wrapping an arm around Cas's shoulders. That's what's gonna happen, best case scenario. Cas'll look at him, with his big eyes, and he'll say 'This does not compute, Dean' - and then everything'll be normal. Sam'll tease, sure - but it won't mean anything, 'cause it's never meant anything. Cas and Dean. Dean and Cas. That's it.

This whole place could've been thought up. If the fish were his - well, it stands to reason that the dream was too, right? Just some sick prank, conjured up from his stupid...desires. The word feels wrong, sitting in his heady - too heavy, to associate with Cas. They're not even desires, really. More like...wishes. Hopes. Dreams.

"It was not," Castiel says, quietly, "nor will it ever be, real."

"But...d'you want it to be?"

 

Dean can tell he's overstepped the mark, as soon as he says it. Castiel's mouth judders - he's tight, strung out all over.

"I mean - shit. 'Course not. 'Course you don't," Dean hurriedly backpedals, trying to fight down the flush in his cheeks, "'cause you're an angel, and angels don't want that shit. I get it, Cas. Really, I do."

By now, Dean's pretty sure his face is on fire. He sends up a prayer, silently, for Sam not to be able to see this - otherwise he'll never hear the end of it. Or, worse, they'll have to talk about it - and Sam will put on his I-pity-you-Dean face, and Cas will never speak to him again, and Dean'll have to move to Alaska, and take out all of his stupid pent-up feelings on a tree, or a car, or whatever the Hell they have over there.

"I'm not - y'know - I'm not what you're looking for, man. Hannah was a catch - a real catch. You two are probably together already, and that's great. If you need any advice, I'm the place to visit. Seriously. Just call. I'm your - wingman, or wing-angel, or whatever. Say the word, and I'm there."

Dean's aware that he's babbling. Sadly, his tongue doesn't appear to be his own, anymore. He clamps down on it, and fights back a curse. This has got to be part of some crazy dream - he could've hit his head, on the way down. Hell, for all he knows, he could still be in that pile of bricks.

"Ow." Dean rubs his wrist, as Castiel looks fixedly at him. Suddenly, Alaska doesn't seem far enough away. England, maybe. Or the North Pole.

"I am not romantically involved with Hannah - or anyone else, for that matter, human...or angel."

Dean's producing so much redness, you could use it to make tomato sauce. "I - yeah, I - ah - I used to be good at this stuff. I - yeah. Yeah," Dean finishes, lamely. A leaf whips past his ear, and impales itself on the hedge. Dean begins to back away. "I'll, um, go tell Sam we're ready. We've gotta walk to the portal, so-"

 

Just as Dean thinks he's in the clear, a hand shoots out, and grabs him. Fingers wind around his wrist, in a vice-like grip. Dean's eyebrows shoot up - because for a guy with small hands, Cas can hold on hard.

In the dim light, Castiel's eyes seem to glow. It's kinda weird, in a Disney movie kinda way. Gabriel would be proud.

"I never said," the angel says, sounding out each syllable, "that I do not wish to be." Cas's chest is rising pretty fast. He probably doesn't know he's doing it - he doesn't need to breathe, after all. Weird magical creatures and their weirdly endearing quirks.

"When I created the illusion, I did not intend to use it more than once." Castiel's speaking quickly; so quickly, that Dean can barely keep up with him. "But - it -" The angel grits his teeth. "Things changed. I was in need of solace, and - I meant to destroy it. All of it."

"It? Don't you mean him?" Dean spits out. Cas flinches, at that. Good. "That's a real guy you've got in there, Cas. Where'd he spring from? Neverland?"

"He is not real, Dean. He was assimilated from my consciousness - my memories of you. He's a shadow. Nothing more."

"He was a shadow. Was. He's dead - in case you didn't understand that before. He died, trying to save you, and - and is that all he's gonna get? You saying he ain't real? He was, Cas. You - you got him a cat, and a dog, and a freakin' monkey, and - and you stayed with him. And he deserved that. D'you know how much of a life he got, Cas? None. 'Cause of you. How's that fair, huh? How's it fair to make him wait around - stop him from moving on? How? How?"

"It - he -" Castiel's face seals over; zips up. "He was not real. He was an-"

"An illusion. You said that before." Dean runs his free hand through his hair. It sticks up, around his fingers. "Thing is, he thought he wasn't. You know what he wanted?"

Castiel pauses; shakes his head.

"He wanted a brother. That's it. That's all he ever asked for. Someone to stick with him, and - and call him names, and listen to crap music, and take his side, no matter what. Couldn't you have given him that? Couldn't you have given him something? And don't say he had pets, 'cause that don't mean a goddamn thing. They ain't family, if they vanish at the drop of a hat. That - it doesn't work that way."

There's something funny happening, on Cas's face. Dean can't put a name to it. "I...I did not know."

"Yeah. You didn't. Doesn't make it right. Doesn't mean you care. Did you care, Cas? Did you think about what he did, while you were gone?" Cas looks like he's gonna retreat - gonna run away, crawl back into his hole and wait for the storm to blow over. Dean can't have that. He won't.

He's near, now - they're near, near enough to touch, to press, to hit. "He waited, Cas. He waited for you. Even when you didn't spare a glance for him - even when you - when you hurt him - he waited. And he hurt, Cas. It fucking hurt." Dean presses a palm to his heart. It's going pretty fast: _rat-a-tat-tatting_ , banging into his ribs. "Do you even know how it feels? To care about someone like that?"

 

Castiel's going to hit him. No, not just hit him - that's an understatement. Cas is going to hurl him to the ground, draw back his fist, and knock him into next week. Dean can see it happening, on a recording inside his head, scratched into his brain.

Cas is rigid; and he's a storm. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say there was lighting, pulsing out of fingertips. Dean wants to cower - wants to hide. This is Castiel: angel of the Lord. This isn't Cas. This is somebody else - somebody who pushed him up against a wall, and throttled him.

Thing is, Winchesters never flee. They stay strong - they stick together. They don't just pack up their bags, and fly off into the sunset. They're family - and even if they hit one another, they're still together. Even if this happens, they'll pick themselves back up - Cas and Dean, Dean and Cas. Just like always.

Castiel's body slumps. His shoulders fall. His fists uncurl. He doesn't look angry, anymore. He just seems...tired.

"Yes," Castiel says, quietly. "I do. I care, Dean. I have always cared."

"Then why did you go?"

Castiel breathes out. His coat-tails flutter around him, mingling with the grass. "I had to. I couldn't - this is the closest I can come, without...without hurting you. I couldn't do that. Not again."

"The closest you can come to what?"

Castiel smiles, briefly. It's bitter. It's not his normal smile - not his real one. Cas hasn't been doing a whole lotta smiling, recently. It's a change.

"To you, Dean," the angel says. "To you."

 

"You...you wanna be alone. In the world. With _me_."

Castiel stares at him, unblinking. "Yes."

Dean stares back. He doesn't think he could do anything else. "That..."

Castiel doesn't falter for a second. "It was not a precise copy. I could not...get it right." A little wind blows up; it stirs his trenchcoat. On the ground around them, the leaves rise, and fall back down again.

"You," Dean tries again. He doesn't get any further. There is a grey cloud, passing overhead. It wafts gently towards them, growing darker with every passing moment.

"Yes."

Dean opens his mouth. He can feel something move, in the pit of his chest. "And me?"

"Precisely." Castiel's watching him, eyes narrowed slightly - and they're very, very blue, and very, very earnest. His hair's rumpled on one side, and his suit's been pressed, and his shoes have mud on them.

"Cas...I-"

"Dean," Castiel says, with a touch of finality. Dean's mouth snaps shut. "I know," Castiel says. "I know."

On the street behind him, a tentacle wraps around a streetlamp, and drags it into a crack in the earth. Castiel doesn't spare it a glance. All of a sudden, the world is cold. The angel's gaze is unwavering.

"Damn it," Dean mutters, surges forwards, and kisses him.

 

Castiel tastes of mouth-wash, and sugar. Dean probably shouldn't be surprised by this. As it is, he jams their lips together, tilting his head to one side, hands fisting in the back of Cas's coat - tugging him closer, and closer, until there's no room between their bodies at all - no empty space, just the two of them, chests touching, hips rubbing. Through Castiel's shirt, he can't feel a heartbeat.

Against him, the angel stiffens. Dean's heart sinks - and then he is being kissed back. Eagerly. With lots of tongue, and teeth. Castiel's fingers curl in his hair, and he steps forward, forcing Dean back - and he's smiling, actually smiling, and Dean thinks he might be smiling, too, although he can't be sure.

For someone who doesn't get around much, Cas isn't too bad at this. Their mouths click, a couple of times. Dean might have a bitten lip, in a couple of places - but quite frankly, this is too good to stop, even if it's a little...weird. It's hot, and it's close, and Castiel's hands are sliding underneath his shirt, exploring the skin, and all Dean can think is finally.

Castiel breaks away. His breath puffs, against Dean's mouth. "I-"

"Cas," Dean says, "shut it." And then he pulls him in, dips him downwards, and does it all over again.

 

Above them, the cloud breaks; with a crackle of thunder, and a spark of lightning.

 

 

"Cas?"

The angel looks across at him, smiling stupidly. "Yes, Dean?" Castiel's hand brushes his cheekbone, sweeping downwards towards his neck. Warmth radiates out from him - his smile's glowing, bright and hot. Dean's never seen anything like it. He doesn't think he wants to, if it's not the real deal.

Locking his hands together, he steps forward, obliterating the gap between them completely. Placing a hand on Cas's cheek, he marvels at the heat. Cas's eyelids flutter; Dean smirks, broadly. Cas is unresisting - as Dean tugs him closer, he trips, feet knocking together. Dean wraps arms around him; steadies him; leans their heads together.

A droplet of water drips off the end of Cas's nose, sliding down onto his suit lapel. Dean's fingers itch to follow it; he takes one breath; takes another. Cas stares at him, eyes wide and blue and hopeful and so very, very his.

Dean leans in closer; so close, that the water runs down onto his nose, too. Castiel's eyes have flecks of green, in them. He never noticed, before.

Dean smiles, before he can stop himself. It's not too bad.

"...Can we get a dog?"

 

 

The heavens open, and the clouds pour.


End file.
